Drops of Crimson
by Seven Moves
Summary: One shot. Hermione Granger isn't perfect, no one is. But perfection is expected of the very best and it isn't only the weak who crack under pressure and strain...


Author's Notes: I'd like to thank QuidditchQueen58 for putting this plot bunny up for adoption over at FictionAlley, so this is for her. Hope you like it.

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Drops of Crimson

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Blood-red. The color of passion, anger…pain. Deep pain that hides beneath a cool mask of perfection and seeming indifference, pain waiting to explode. To escape. And it did escape. Slowly, torturously, it made its presence known each night as it trickled down pale wrists in drops of crimson. Nobody knew, of course. No one supposed that perfect Hermione Granger was, in fact, not perfect. No one except herself. People had their suspicions, oh yes – but those were kept quiet. After all, it was laughable to imagine that Hermione Granger, Hogwarts' top student, had anything to hide. Only she knew what the others did not.

Every night for the past three weeks, Hermione had been sneaking to the Astronomy Tower after hours with a small knife in her clothing. The knife had once belonged to Bill Weasley, was passed down to the twins, and then to Ron, who gave it to Hermione as part of a Christmas gift last holiday. And on this Friday evening, she was stealing away to the Astronomy Tower once more.

It was past eleven; nobody would be patrolling the corridors and those couples in the tower would be too busy to notice the slim form of Hermione Granger among them. The Astronomy Tower had a reputation for attracting both young lovers and the suicidal. Tonight, as on many nights before, Hermione was neither. She was there for personal business.

Touching a hand to her breast pocket to ensure that the knife was still there and wrapped in cloth, Hermione moved quietly through the dark corridors, past sleeping paintings and suits of armor. She had been to the Astronomy Tower so often lately that her legs took her there automatically. Without thinking about it, she crept up the stairs to the top. The narrow staircase suddenly gave way to open space and she looked around. There were only a few couples tonight, partially concealed in their nooks and crannies; a hidden corner drew Hermione in.

She silently walked across the stone, glancing all around to make sure she wasn't being watched. She had a vague feeling that someone had their eyes on her, but dismissed it as paranoia. She knelt in the dark corner; anyone who would have seen her might have thought she was paying homage to some god had they not glimpsed the knife she pulled out of her breast pocket.

The white cloth wrapped around it fell away and the silver blade glittered as it caught the moonlight. Hermione watched it, fascinated. Moonlight danced on the edge of the blade, making it glow with hidden power. The Muggle-born witch yanked the knife out of the light of the moon and into the darkness of the corner; closing her brown eyes, she pushed the sharp edge of the blade against her skin and jerked it away.

A gasp escaped her lips and she opened her eyes.

A thin line of blood had appeared on her wrist. Hermione noted how it pooled along the cut and when the blood kept coming, it rolled down her wrist and hand in tiny crimson drops that looked black in the night. She switched the knife into her other hand and did the same thing, slashing her skin and observing the way her own blood ran down her wrist. It gave her a savage pleasure, doing this. She had been aching so much for so long now but none of it seemed real, not until she could see the blood. Cutting herself was a physical pain with tangible results; it was an outlet for the screaming and hurting that was happening within the walls of her own mind.

Hermione Granger wasn't perfect. Intelligent though she was, she couldn't provide an answer for every question, a beautifully written essay for every class, a good word of advice when kind words were needed. It felt as though everyone leaned on her. Didn't anyone ever notice the unhappy smiles? Where was her help when she couldn't stand on her own anymore?

She slashed herself again, this time closer to the elbows, angry that no one seemed to care. The way things were going, she might as well jump off the Astronomy Tower and commit suicide right now. Three weeks of sneaking away from Gryffindor tower proved that her so-called friends didn't even keep tabs on her anymore. Hermione pushed the blade deeper into her skin each time until blood was steadily streaming down her arms, dripping onto the stone and forming puddles of the scarlet-black liquid. She didn't even notice she was crying.

_That's for not caring_, she thought both angrily and miserably. _That's for expecting me to be perfect, to know everything, to do everything right –_

"Aiming to wind up in the hospital wing, are you?" asked a voice.

Hermione gasped and the knife slipped out of her grasp, drawing a thin line of blood along her thumb. It fell to the stone floor; Hermione spun around, peering into the dark.

Red hair and gleaming eyes looked out at her from another corner and a tall, lanky figure emerged: Ron Weasley. His eyes took in everything and Hermione looked down, realizing that she didn't want to meet his gaze. Ron walked towards her, knelt down beside her – either he didn't notice the blood on the ground or he didn't care.

"Hermione…" he said softly, "why are you doing this?"

Hermione stiffened at how gentle he sounded. Couldn't he see she wanted to be alone? She didn't want to listen to whatever he had to say – she knew it would get to her and she wasn't going to be deterred, not now. She still refused to look at her friend. Why did he care, why would anyone all of a sudden care, what did it matter if she bled herself dry – before she realized it, she was on her feet and screaming these thoughts at Ron.

"You, Harry, Ginny, no one cares anymore! I only exist if you don't understand the homework or need a helping hand! I'm only human if you need an ally! I'm not even a friend now! Was I ever? Three weeks I've been doing this, Ron – "she thrust her bleeding arms in Ron's face "– three weeks! Am I still perfect Hermione Granger? Am I sturdy and reliable now? Am I human, am I allowed to be a friend with feelings? Am I, Ron!"

Ron picked up the white cloth that had fallen to the ground and gently began to wipe the blood off Hermione's arms, still kneeling on the stone. "You always were," he said. "You've always been Hermione Granger – never perfect. Sturdy and reliable yes, but unpredictable at times. And human, always human."

"A friend with feelings?" asked Hermione quietly.

There was a pause in which Ron stopped mopping up Hermione's blood. This time it was he who wouldn't look up. "More," he whispered. "More than just a friend with feelings."

Hermione stared in disbelief. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Is that why he knew where she was?

"So you followed me," she said. "Have you been coming up here for a show? Did you know the whole time?"

Ron shook his head. "If I had known, I would've stopped you earlier. I knew you had been going places after hours but I had no idea…"

Hermione swallowed hard. So someone _did_ care. Ron cared. Was it really only minutes ago that she had been foolish enough to consider killing herself?

Ron had wiped away as much of the blood as he could, but still it rolled down in droplets. He cleared his throat – had he been on the verge of crying? Oh, Hermione hoped not – and got to his feet. "We'd better go see Madame Pomfrey before you lose any more blood," he said shakily.

"What am I supposed to tell her when she asks me what happened?"

"The truth. You_ are_ Hermione, aren't you?"

This simple phrase hit Hermione hard, and she nodded. "Yes. Yes, I am."

Ron dropped the blood-soaked cloth on the ground and held out a hand; Hermione gratefully took it. She looked at him and said softly, "Thank you." Ron nodded as if to say it was nothing. Hermione glanced behind him as they walked away, hands still clasped together. The knife glimmered eerily at her from the ground in a small puddle of blood.

She had been looking for comfort in the wrong red.


End file.
